


The Gift

by FlightDeckOrchids



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 18:52:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4846508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlightDeckOrchids/pseuds/FlightDeckOrchids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Wesley comes home from a long day of working for Fisk to find a gift from the Russians in his apartment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gift

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first effort in the Daredevil fandom and my first multi-chapter work. It is not yet finished and their may be smut before it's over. I make no promises. Much like the series itself, this story is dark and involves kidnapping, gun violence, and mentions of rape. If those are your triggers, stay away, otherwise enjoy.

     It had most certainly already been a long day for James Wesley.  His outward appearance gave no sign of it though.  His expensive suit and tie were as crisp as they had been at seven that morning, even as midnight approached.  As Wesley entered his apartment and flicked on the lights, all he wanted to do was loosen that tie, take off his shoes, and enjoy a glass of wine before turning in for the night.  The bright white envelope resting on the mahogany table in his foyer changed that plan.  Curious, Wesley picked it up and opened it, his face becoming more sour as he read each handwritten line of the letter within.

_Dearest Lapdog of Fisk,_

_To improve our business relationship, we have left a token of our affection.  We hope you enjoy it since we did not keep receipt.  You’ll find it in the bedroom.  We did not have time to gift wrap._

_Kisses – A &V_

     Those damn Russians, they had been in his apartment, left him something.  He was going to have to call a locksmith to change the locks; no, he was going to have to move.  _Jesus Christ_ , he thought.  Exasperated, he pulled his glasses down and rubbed the bridge of his nose.  _Why was nothing ever simple?_ he thought as he replaced his glasses.  He sighed and resigned himself to the inevitable.  “No use prolonging it,” he muttered aloud as he made his way toward his bedroom.

     When he reached the bedroom door, he paused for a moment, considering if he could be walking into a trap.  He reached his hand inside his suit jacket to rest upon his holstered gun, then relaxed, deciding it was an unneeded measure.  A trap like this wouldn’t be the Russians style.  If they had intended to catch him unaware they would have jumped him at the door, no note required.  This was something different.  Finally, Wesley turned the knob and pushed the door open.  The lamp on his nightstand illuminated the scene before him- a woman, unconscious by the look of it, maybe even dead, ankles and hands bound, lumped in the middle of his king-sized bed.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ , he repeated over in his head.  Most people thought Wesley never lost his cool.  Most people didn’t realize he just never let them see it when he did.  He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his dark hair.  Collecting his thoughts, he approached the body looking for signs of life.  He found her pulse and noted she was breathing.  _Definitely alive, possibly drugged, and probably going to be out for a while_ , he surmised.  At least that gave him some time to decide how to take care of this.

     He considered her again.  Why would the Russians leave her?  A gift they had called her, something to enjoy.  Wesley knew what the Russians would do with such a gift, rape her and put a bullet in her head, or put her on the next to boat to God knows where as part of their human trafficking ring.  Wesley certainly was no hero, he never spoke up against the Russians’ activities, but he found it distasteful all the same and something he wished he didn’t have to know about.  Did they think he was the type of man who would take sexual gratification from raping a random woman dropped in his bed?  If so, the Russians still had much to learn about James Wesley.

     He leaned in closer to her face, wondering what sort of woman the Russians thought he would find attractive.   She had thick, curly auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a pleasantly curvy figure.  Wesley estimated she was in her early thirties, near his own age, not old by any means, but still not as young as the teens and college girls who normally fell prey to the Russians’ human trafficking operation.  She was clad in a designer blouse and pencil skirt, dirty from whatever she had endured, but he could tell her garments were high-end.  Her red bottom heels confirmed his theory that she was well off.  Wesley noted one of those heels had been broken.  She had no possessions with her, jewelry and purse missing, probably already being sold on the street.

     Wesley turned away from her and began to pace the floor.  He steepled his fingers in front of his pursed lips in a manner worthy of Sherlock Holmes as he weighed his options.  If she had money, she most likely had friends, business connections, a family even.  Someone was going to miss her.  Someone was going to be looking for her.  Had she seen the Russians?  Could she identify them?  Had they told her anything?  Wesley didn’t really care about protecting them per say, but keeping them safe was part of ensuring his employer, Wilson Fisk, stayed safe.

     Considering what she could know, the solution seemed simple – take a pillow, smother her, call his driver Francis to bring the car back, and the two of them would dump her body in the Hudson, end of story.  Except he couldn’t shake the feeling someone would be looking for her; she was somehow special and her death would draw too much unwanted attention.  Also, Wesley didn’t like killing unless all other options had been exhausted.  And to add to the matter, how would he and Francis get the body out of the building without being seen?

     Another idea sprang to his mind – he could keep her alive and they could drop her outside the hospital, but that would be problematic if she woke up in transit.  And again, he still didn’t know how much she knew and carrying an unconscious woman out of the building was almost as risky as moving a dead one. 

     He could just call the Russians and have them clean up their own mess.  _Lord, I don’t want them inside my apartment again_ , Wesley thought.  And their solution would almost certainly end up with the woman dead in some gruesome way that would leave blood on his walls and bullet holes in his silk sheets. 

     Wesley sank into the leather armchair in the corner of the room as he continued to think.  After discounting what seemed like dozens of scenarios, he finally had an epiphany and silently congratulated himself for his resourcefulness.

     Wesley got up from the chair and approached the body on his bed.  He untied the binds that held the woman’s hands and feet, shoving them into his jacket pocket.  He removed her shoes, placing them at the foot of the bed and pulled her body up further on the mattress so that her head rested on the pillows in a more comfortable manner. 

     Finally, it was time to look after his own comfort.  He removed his suit jacket and shoes, placing them in his closet.  His gun and holster were deposited in the drawer of his nightstand.  Then he rolled up his shirtsleeves as he padded out of the room toward the pantry for the glass of wine he had wanted since first arriving home.  Full glass in hand, he loosened his tie and returned to the armchair in his bedroom where he intended to keep vigil until the nameless woman in his bed awoke.


End file.
